


Broken

by WinJennster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Forced Drug Use, Gen, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:25:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinJennster/pseuds/WinJennster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a series of drabbles based on Enkidu and Oynx Dream's Word of the Week Series on FF.net.<br/>Dean's abducted in Baltimore, Maryland, by what he believes are Demons.<br/>Sam needs help to find him.<br/>Each chapter title is the word of the week.<br/>(This fic is going to get progressively darker as it goes)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Withdrawn

It took Sam two weeks to find Dean.

But he did find him, out of his mind, pumped full of god knows what, in an abandoned warehouse deep in West Baltimore.

He was strung out, two weeks of beard growth on his haggard face, eyes sunken and withdrawn.

Dean didn’t recognize Sam, but lay still as his brother carefully cut the bonds on his bloody wrists, Sam noting the track marks on both arms.

Monsters, demons, these were things Sam and Dean were trained and prepared to deal with.

The depravity of the human race never failed to shock them.

***

Sam drove straight from Baltimore to Sioux Falls, only stopping for bathroom and caffeine breaks.

Dean huddled in the back seat, shaking through the symptoms of withdrawal, sometimes crying out in fear, drifting in and out of nightmares.

Sam still hadn’t been able to get a coherent sentence out of his brother, just mumbled phrases, and pleas to an invisible tormenter to leave him alone.

Bobby would know what to do, Sam just had to get Dean there in one piece.

There was so much to worry about, like dirty needles, but no matter what happened, Sam would be there.

 

 


	2. Toothbrush

Sam heard the crash and ran to the bathroom.

He found Dean on the floor, toothbrushes and toiletries scattered everywhere. He was trying to pick the stuff up, hands shaking.

It had been a long couple of days, the nightmares keeping them both up. Dean seemed to be past the brutal first stage of withdrawal. He still couldn’t remember what had happened to him. His last memory was of eating a piece of pie at the Boulevard Diner in downtown Baltimore.

Sam had nursed him through those first brutal days, the shakes and the vomiting almost more than either one of them could handle.

Bobby had a nurse friend come in to help, and they’d all worked to clean him up, then she’d put him on I.V. fluids to combat the severe dehydration.

The concern now, judging by the proliferation of track marks on Dean’s forearms, was the use of dirty needles.

The nurse had taken blood samples to send out for testing, and Sam knew he would worry non-stop until they had the results.

Sam reached down to help Dean clean up the mess, then pulled his shaking brother to his feet.

“Let’s get you back to bed, bro.”


	3. Eden

Dean was asleep on the couch, East of Eden playing on Bobby's TV.

 

His face was pale, shadows deep under his eyes.

 

Sam stood watching his brother sleep, his thoughts in turmoil. Neither one of them had had much sleep the night before. Now that the chemical dependency seemed to be loosening its grip, Sam had been foolish enough to assume Dean would begin to fully recover.

 

Instead, something else was happening.

 

Dean wouldn't eat.

 

He was barely sleeping.

 

He didn't talk to anyone.

 

And the nightmares…the nightmares were unreal.

 

Sam sighed, ran a hand through his hair and prayed.


	4. Broken

Three weeks earlier:

If he hadn’t decided to investigate the broken lock, maybe he wouldn’t be so screwed up now.

But he had, then there’d been the squeal of tires, hands on him, a black hood being shoved down over his head, the rip of duct tape, and the slamming of a sliding door.

Then a sharp pain in his neck, an odd warmth at the site, then a feeling like falling, followed by total blackness.

Then he’d woken up here, wherever ‘here’ was, arms cuffed around a post at his back, duct tape wrapped around his face, blinding him.

Dean never had a chance.

He’d struggled against the bonds since he’d woken to find himself restrained, blind, and thirsty with a headache the size of Texas.

There were hands on him again now, and he struggled, even though he knew it was pointless.

They were ripping his sleeve, and he could feel the length of rubber being tied around his arm.

Realizing what they were about to do, Dean’s heart started racing, and he fought harder, earning himself a backhand across the face.

Feeling the needle slip into his arm, Dean screamed as he felt the drugs take effect.


	5. Literal

Not for the first time, Dean wondered what the hell those assholes were putting in his veins.

Whatever it was, when he came down from it, he’d find himself lying flat on the floor, shaking and sweating, and literally dying for more.

He had no way of knowing how much time had passed.

No one to talk to, no one to tell him it would be alright.

Dean sank a little further into despair with each hit, each slip of the needle into his veins.

He thought of Sam all the time. Sam was the _only_ thing keeping him sane.


	6. Fool

Sam feels like such a fool.

Splitting up to get the job done in a small town is one thing. Doing that in a big city like Baltimore?

Another thing completely.

It’s been twenty-four hours and no sign of Dean. He’s called Det. Ballard, and she agreed to have some of her buddies look for the Impala, and call Sam, and Sam only, if they find it.

On Newington Avenue, just off of North Avenue, in West Baltimore, the Impala sticks out like a sore thumb.

She’s surprisingly intact, considering the neighborhood, and Sam runs her hands along the fender.

“Where is he?” he asks the car, wishing she could answer. Sam walks around the blocks surrounding the area, but finds nothing that speaks of Dean.

He’s about to give up, and take the Impala with him, when he sees the broken padlock.

It’s on a wooden door that secures an abandoned house.

They were investigating a nest of Vamps in the city; this is exactly the kind of thing Dean would have been looking for.

Sam pries the door open and wiggles through the narrow opening.

Hopefully, the answers he needs lay inside, and not his brother’s lifeless body.


	7. Worship

Sam eased into the abandoned house, squeezing his frame through the small opening.

The inside was dark and smelly, and right away he could make out some sort of altar, symbols painted above and around it.

It was some demented house of worship.

No sign of Dean, which was a relief and disappointment all at the same time.

As far as he could tell, there was no sign of his brother having been there at all, although it was definitely the kind of thing they’d been looking for.

Sam felt his frustration grow. He was finding clues, but not Dean.

 ***

Dean felt a tremble run through him as he heard heels clicking on the floor.

He pulled back into the corner, determined to get as far away from her as possible.

“You should be worshiping the ground I walk on,” she laughed, “I’m the one who makes you feel better.”

Still blinded with the duct tape, arms secured behind him, there was only so far he could go to get away from her.

Rough hands yanked on his arm. He felt a thrill of fear go through him. Dean didn’t want the drugs, but he could barely function without them.


	8. Click

 He’s dreaming.

It’s quiet and peaceful, a dock overlooking a calm lake.

He’s been here before.

Sam’s beside him, drinking a beer, fiddling with a fishing pole, smiling at him from beneath shaggy hair.

Cas is here, and that’s how he knows he’s dreaming, because Cas is gone. Cas walked into the water and left him, just like everyone leaves him.

He leans over the arm of his chair now, and smiles reassuringly at Dean, blue eyes flashing intently in the setting sun.

“It’s going to be ok,” he says softly.

The click of heels on concrete shatters his reverie.


	9. Goo

Sam went over every inch of the Impala in the motel parking lot.

He found nothing out of order, nothing missing, no clues whatsoever. There was a small spot of black goo inside one of the wheels, but it turned out to be congealed motor oil.

Dean had been missing for three days. Sam was growing more frustrated with each passing minute. Garth was in town now, and they’d spent the afternoon going through the house on Newington.

Their search netted nothing new, and Sam avoided Garth’s eyes when they left, know full well that his friend assumed the worst.

***

Apparently, drugging him out of his mind wasn’t enough anymore, and Dean groaned as someone drove a fist into his gut.

His insides felt like goo. He was exhausted, desperate to pass out.

The beating felt like an interrogation, but no questions were asked. He was disoriented, and still blindfolded, although the duct tape was beginning to weaken from the constant flow of sweat and tears.

Dean had felt dizzy most of the day, and he was sure he getting dehydrated.

He did his best to focus on Sam.

He wondered how much longer his broken body could hold out.

 


	10. Check In

Late that afternoon, Sam leaned up against the Impala, and called to check in with Bobby.

_"Any luck yet, boy?"_

“No. We found what looks like some sure of cult meeting house. There was an altar, blood everywhere, but nothing that looked like vamps.”

_"That’s great."_

“I know. I’m freaking out, Bobby. It’s been three days, and I’m clueless.”

_"Did Garth get out there yet?"_

“Yeah, he’s helping me. Bobby, I’m freaking scared as shit here. What am I missing? There has to be something, something I’m missing, something…he trailed off with a sigh. “I don’t know what to do.”

***

Dean groaned, his head pounding, pain checking in from every part of his body.

The blindfold was gone now, so that was an improvement.

His captors were three men and a woman, and all of them had flashed black eyes at him. It made the situation more confusing. Why would they bother with the drugs when they could do so much more with their demonic powers?

It worried him.

He’d been drugged and tortured, but there’d been no questions, no demands for answers, and Dean was started to put it all together.

He wasn’t the prize. He was the bait.


	11. Grim

Dean blinked, his eyes muzzy, eyelids crusty and hard to open.

She was sitting beside him, long black hair in a thick braid over one shoulder. Her eyes were green, briefly flashing black as she grinned at him.

“Situation’s looking pretty grim, eh Dean? You’ve been here for eight long, long days. You’re wishing we’d just let you die, but that’s not going to happen.”

He turned his head away, refusing to acknowledge her words or her presence.

“Sammy’s going to come for you. We haven’t left any clues, so when we do finally toss him a bone, he’s going to come running. We’ll be waiting for him. And lucky you, you’ll get to watch while I let my hounds tear him apart. You won’t be able to do anything but scream. I’m going to enjoy it so very much. And when he’s dead, we’ll turn the dogs on you. I know they’re going to enjoy dragging you back to hell. There’s so many that miss you downstairs, just imagine the welcome home party!

“You Winchesters, so arrogant, think you’re so much better than everyone else, we’ll see how much better you are when you’re begging me for Sam’s life.”


	12. Friend

Sam was at the end of his rope.

Eight long days Dean had been missing, and he and Garth were no closer to finding him.

There’s a knock at the door, and he wearily pulls himself off the bed to answer.

There are two guys on the other side. One is at least as tall as he is, maybe taller, blonde hair, blue eyes, the other is about Dean’s height, with dark hair and hazel eyes.

Tall one smiles.

“Hey, I’m Sean, and this is Rick. We’re friends of Detective Ballard’s, and we’re going to help you find your brother.”

 


	13. Growl

“So, Detective Ballard sent you. Does that mean you guys are cops?”

“Yup,” Rick answered, “but we’re cops in the know. We know what you and Dean do, and we know about your past. We even believe you about St. Louis. Look into our pasts if you need to, or call your friend Bobby. That’s who helped us out a few years ago when a damn shifter took Sean’s face and shot up half of Baltimore.”

“Wow. What happened?”

“Asshat made another kill, on camera, while I was in jail.”

“Then, the cops shot and killed the damn thing while Sean was still in jail, and that was that, he was exonerated. We still wanted answers, and someone gave us Bobby’s number. The rest is history.”

Sam considered this for a moment. These guys seemed upfront enough.

“So you two are partners on the force?”

Sean smiled fondly at Rick.

“Yup. But we’re also brothers, adopted brothers. Our Dad’s a cop, too.”

“Ok. Say I decide to trust you. What do we do next?”

“We go tear apart that Newington Avenue house,” Rick growled, “and we find out what the hell took your brother.”

Sam relaxed. Things were looking up.


	14. Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters will start getting a little longer now, and things are about to take a turn for the worse for our hero.

“Well, hello, Miss Midnight Gorgeous!”

“Oh, brother. Every time he sees a classic car.” Sean shakes his head, as Rick zeroes in on the Impala, eyes wide and worshipful.

“Him and Dean will get along fine then.”

They were all standing outside of Sam’s hotel room, getting ready to head out for lunch, then go look at the house where Sam had found the Impala. Sam trusted these guys already. They knew about the supernatural, had experienced it, they were brothers too, and seemed genuinely concerned about Dean.

It didn’t hurt that Bobby was able to confirm their story about the Shifter.

Rick is still drooling over the Impala, asking questions about the engine and other crap Sam has no clue about.

“You wanna drive?” he asks, tossing Rick the keys.

“Hell friggin’ yes!”

“Just don’t tell my brother ok? He’ll freak.”

“No probs, man, but if it helps, I can return the favor and let him drive that.” He points to a Chevelle in the parking lot, red with black racing stripes. “That’s my baby. So trust me, I understand, and his baby is in very good hands. Now, I need a burger and some pie, so let’s go!”

 ***

Dean shifts uncomfortably on the concrete floor.

Dammit, he’s waking up. He’s learned to prefer the dark midnight of unconsciousness to reality. When he’s out, they leave him alone.

Friggin’ demons.

Dean hates demons with a passion. There was Ruby. And Meg. And Azazel, Alastair, and a whole other host of black-eyed bitches determined to end him. At least he knew what they wanted.

But these guys.

He doesn’t understand it. It’s been a constant stream of drugs and beatings, but it doesn’t make sense. They’ve mentioned using him as bait to bring Sam in, but that doesn’t make sense either.

His hunter’s brain is telling him that he’s missing something, that there’s a clue that he isn’t seeing, but he can’t latch on to it.

He wonders if the drugs have actually damaged his brain, because he used to have pretty decent critical thinking skills. If his instincts told him something was wrong, he was usually pretty good at sorting through the debris and figuring it out.

There’s a clatter nearby, loud voices arguing, but he can’t make them out.

A shiver of fear dances up his spine.

Somehow, he knows they’re arguing about him.

That can’t be good.


	15. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of Noncon.

It's raining by the time they finish with lunch and get to the Newington Avenue house. Sam and Sean force the plank door out of the way, and Rick climbs through the hole first.

He stands in the middle of the room, silent, eyes sweeping over everything, observant, still, and to Sam, impressive. He's seen cops work before, but he's never seen anything like Rick. It's almost as though he's letting the room speak to him, letting the wood studs and broken drywall whisper their secrets directly into his brain.

Taking several steps forward, he kneels at the makeshift altar, lifting the ratty piece of fabric, touching the moldy bronze dishes littering the top, inspecting the burned out nubs of candles.

It's fascinating to watch, and Sam waits with baited breath.

"This is all fake." Rick stands abruptly. "It's a setup, to make you believe Dean was taken by something supernatural, or by a cult or something."

"You've seen this before?" Sean raises his eyebrow at Rick.

"The Hawkins case."

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck."

"Wait, why fuck? What's wrong? What's the Hawkins case?" Sam doesn't like the brothers reactions. Rick looks grim and Sean looks freaked…and nauseous.

"We're gonna get a beer, Sam. You're gonna need it."

* * *

Pain.

It's all he knows. It's all they're allowing him to have.

He hurts everywhere. His arms. His legs. His mouth. His ass.

Dean's prayed for death more times than he can count. He's even forgotten that Cas is gone and he's brokenly cried out his name, he's begged for someone to save him.

Anything would be better than this.

It's a word he thought he'd never associate with himself. Things like this didn't happen to badass motherfuckers like him.

And when it did happen, he was so drugged out of his mind that he didn't even realize what exactly was happening at first.

Rape.

Not something he'd thought about before now. He's been threatened in the past of course, always too pretty for his own good, but it had never happened like this. He'd always been badass enough to scare any obnoxious motherfuckers off.

But now, lying in a pool of his own blood and somebody else's bodily fluids, Dean is about as broken as he can get. He can hear rain dancing on the roof of the warehouse they've been keeping him in, and he wishes the rain would come and wash him away.

He prays for death.


	16. Grouch

Sam's head is spinning. He feels like he's going to be sick.

And it's not from the alcohol, although he's had plenty of that, even as the grouchy bartender slides another round across the bar.

Rick is watching him carefully, judging his reactions, while Sean shifts uncomfortably on a creaky barstool.

He's having difficulty absorbing what Rick is telling him. Only a few things are sticking, because so much of it is so unbelievable, and Sam can't stand the thought of those things happening to Dean, and the fear of how broken his brother must be, how hurt and confused…his thoughts chase around his brain in circles, and Sam decides there just isn't enough alcohol in the world to accept the things he's hearing.

Drugs. Torture. Slavery. Forced prostitution.

Dean.

God.

If he's even still alive.

The thought of him being used in that way…it's more than Sam can handle, and his stomach lurches. He jolts off the barstool and makes a beeline for the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before he's on his knees on the grungy floor, emptying the contents of his stomach into the bowl.

A wet paper towel is gently applied to his neck, and he looks up into Rick's concerned hazel eyes. "We're going to find him Sam. I swear it. I know that shit was hard to hear, but you have to know what we're up against. But I swear on my car, we're going to find him."

Sam nods woodenly, lets Rick pull him to his feet. His face is white in the mirror, and he slowly washes his shaking hands, taking the offered paper towel from Sean, ignoring the other man's look of concern. Another deep breath, and he turns to the brothers.

"Come on. We've got work to do."

 


	17. File

It had gotten to the point where he didn't even feel the pain anymore. Between the drugs in his system and Dean's own patented push-it-away-and-pretend-it-doesn't-exist skills, he was finding it rather simple to just disengage and forget the world.

He had no sense of time anymore. He didn't comprehend the words shouted at him, he didn't feel the pain of the blows rained down on him when he didn't comply, he didn't feel the thirst or the hunger anymore.

Dean was letting go. He was shutting down. The man he used to be was filed away in the dark recesses of his brain, and that's where he was hiding himself. Dean Winchester didn't exist anymore. All he was leaving behind for them was his empty shell of a body.

Fuck them.

They wanted to break him, make him submissive, gentle him, get him to take their bridle.

Fuck them.

Dean retreated further inside himself, shutting and locking the doors behind him.

Fuck them.

He was going to ground, and they would never see him again. No one would hurt him again.

In fact, in the grand scheme of things, the only thing Dean even slightly regretted was that he'd never see Sam again.

He was sorry he wouldn't get to tell him goodbye.

* * *

Sam shoved the overfull manila file back across Rick's desk and closed his eyes, swallowing hard to keep from vomiting again.

"Hey. You ok?" Sean set another cup of coffee in front of him.

"No, I'm not…I'm not ok. I'm so far from ok, it's not even funny."

Sean frowned, his forehead wrinkling. "I know. But we're going to find him."

"You don't know that."

"Rick's pretty confidant. And I've learned to trust his instincts."

"What, is he some kind of psychic?" Sam asked irritably.

Sean looked thoughtful. "Not so much psychic, but definitely perceptive in a way most people aren't. I'm not saying he's got some weird ESP or something like that, but he sees stuff other detectives miss. He sees stuff I miss."

Rick dashed back into the office, his cheeks flushed and a sparkle in his eyes. "We have a lead! I'll explain in the car, but we have to go now!" He yanked his jacket off the back of his chair and went back the way he came.

"Told ya. C'mon, let's go."

Sam got to his feet to follow Sean out of the building, trying desperately not to get his hopes up.

Twelve days with nothing, and finally a lead. He couldn't help but get excited.

Finally, _finally_ , maybe he'd get his brother back.

Maybe.

 


End file.
